


Family Traditions

by asexualshepard



Series: The Adventures of Brynja Cousland, Warden of Ferelden [4]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: AUGH, Awkward Romance, Awkwardness, Cutesy, Developing Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Traditions, yeah i still hate tagging on this website
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-10
Updated: 2015-11-08
Packaged: 2018-04-13 23:11:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4541058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asexualshepard/pseuds/asexualshepard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Cousland Family Sword is buried in history and tradition. Bryn had been told story after story about it--including that of her father following through with it's most popular tradition, of her brother following in his footsteps. </p><p>And now she contemplates joining them in its completion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Offer

Bryn hadn’t enjoyed the first few weeks she spent sleeping in a tent. She missed the comforts of Highever—her warm bed, a bath to be drawn whenever she wished. Morrigan was the only one who’d known how to prepare food when their small band left the Wilds, and neither Leliana nor Sten had any knowledge to share after Lothering. This left Bryn without the extravagant meats and cheeses she was used to.

It had been an uphill struggle, but she’d gotten used to it eventually. Her taste buds grew tolerant of the stew they seemed to have every evening and she’d learned a few nifty tricks for making her bedroll more comfortable. The company was agreeable, the conversations were good, and—truthfully—she found herself filling the hole left by her parents with a different kind of family.

There was, however, one thing she’d enjoyed about camping in the middle of nowhere straight from the beginning. The silence. It was always quiet—and so, so different from the noise and bustle of Highever Castle. She’d never been truly alone there, but out in the forests and hills littering Ferelden she could simply step away from camp and find herself enveloped in moonlight, crickets, and little else.

Every once in a while, she’d slip away for an hour or so to herself—time to contemplate their situation and clear her head of the no doubt nasty happenings of the last few weeks. Therefore, when she slipped away from camp one evening, she wasn’t particularly worried about anyone following her.  If someone did, it would only be for the simple fact that she took her sword with her—something she didn’t do on her walks, even though she should.

This is how Bryn found herself sitting on a slightly damp patch of grass next to a nearby river, her back leaning against the rough bark of a tree whose roots reached into the rushing water. The gentle bubbling of the river provided the perfect sound to lull her from her location and into her thoughts—a place she genuinely needed to be.

A conflict had risen in her in the last few weeks. Alistair had… said a few things—things she hadn’t expected. Not bad things, necessarily. Quite the opposite, in fact. She had a feeling both of them had been thinking it and, somehow, he’d been the one with the confidence to actually bring it up in conversation. And then they’d kissed. It was nothing overwhelming—just a brush of lips complete with bright-red blushes and nervous smiles—but it still made her lips tingle when she thought about it.

She cared for him.

A lot.

And this is where the conflict came in. She knew how _she_ felt, and she knew how _he_ felt, and—in her family—that led to one thing.

Her sword sat in her lap, the sheath set aside so she could smooth the pads of her fingers over the blade. The Cousland family crest was emblazoned on the metal, close to the cross-guard. The sword was the last thing she had of her family—the last thing she had to remind her that they had existed at all.

And she was considering giving it away.

The sword had originally been forged for battle, but hadn’t been used for its original purpose for centuries. Somewhere along the way it became part of a tradition. Since then, every member of the Cousland line had given the sword to someone else—someone special. It wasn’t a marriage proposal—though the exchange often ended that way—but more of an offer. For the other party to accept the sword was always sought, but never expected.

When she was young, her favorite bedtime story had been the exchange of the sword between her mother and father. Their parents had been attempting to arrange a marriage between the two, and, somehow, they had been lucky enough to experience “love at first sight.” At least, that’s what Bryn’s mother said—whether or not it was true would never be known.

It had been another two years before they were married, and her father had offered the sword midway through. As her mother told it, he’d taken her out to the exact spot in the Highever gardens they’d first met after the sun had set and the moon had risen, and then he gave a short speech about how he looked forward to spending the rest of his life with her.

When she was younger, Bryn had believed every single word. She knew better now, though—she knew that, though her mother might not have been lying, time made memories sweeter than they actually were.

Still, she’d thought many times about offering the sword herself. Her heart had lent itself to several infatuations over the years—the most potent being that for Ser Gilmore—and for several years her daydreams had consisted of him accepting the sword and sweeping her off her feet. Looking back on it, she realized how ridiculous it was, and that her feelings for Gilmore hadn’t been of any substance.

But her feelings for Alistair were. He made her heart beat faster and her lungs ache for air. The substance was in his smiles, his blushes, how he was always asking after her feelings since their late-night talk about her family. He was a bright spot amidst a vast sea of darkness--one she knew she’d have to swim through.

So, she thought about it.

How long she sat there she wasn’t sure, but she guessed that it was a rather substantial amount of time; she’d left camp while the sun had still been fairly high in the sky and now she could see its last rays of light filtering through the trees on the opposite side of the river. Her mind was still muddied, though. No matter the length of her thoughts, she couldn’t seem to come to any sort of decision.

With a sigh, Bryn closed her eyes and allowed her head to fall back against the tree. Perhaps she’d fall asleep and wake with a clearer idea of what she wanted.

“Bryn?”

She jumped, her hair getting caught in the bark of the tree and her thumb gliding against the edge of her sword. She was quick to open her eyes and shift her gaze to the figure that had appeared from the foliage surrounding her.

Alistair was not ten feet away, his brow creased with apology.

She sighed a breath of relief. “Maker, Alistair, don’t do that to me!”

“You do know I’m not the worst thing that could have crept up on you, right?”

Bryn began pushing herself to her feet, the tip of her sword pressing into the dirt to allow her some leverage.

“Oh, yes, you're my knight in shining armor,” she deadpanned.

Alistair slowly paced towards her. “Well, I don’t know about _shining_.” He came to a stop in front of her, the cheesy grin Bryn had become incredibly familiar with settling on his face.

“Oh, no, definitely shining,” she began. “For it to be anything but, you’d have to actually do some fighting.”

Alistair made a sound in the back of his throat and placed his hand over his heart. “You wound me, good lady.”

“Well, I am a very cruel woman.”

“Indeed, you are.”

The two exchanged smiles and, for a moment, were quiet. Bryn could feel her heart flutter against her ribcage. Her fingers twitched on the pommel of her sword, an itch blooming in her bones.

Alistair’s eyes softened. “Are you alright?”

“What? Yes, of course,” she squeaked, drawing a suspicious look from him.

“You do realize how long you’ve been sitting out here, don’t you? That’s not exactly the behavior of someone who’s _alright._ ”

His gaze was pointed, and Bryn could feel her cheeks warm. “I, um…” Her fingers pressed against the grip of her sword, and she flinched. Her thumb stung where it had nicked the blade of her sword.

“Did you cut yourself?” Alistair questioned. He gently took her hand in his own and fretted over her for a moment, and it was the concern pulling the corners of his lips downward that finally allowed Bryn to make the decision she’d been mulling over for the last several hours. But she wasn’t sure how to approach it. Her father had given a small speech before the offer. Should she do the same? What if Alistair didn’t want it? Could she--

“You know, for someone who grew up handling swords, you sure are clumsy with them,” he said as he released her hand, satisfied that the wound wasn’t deep enough to worry about.

Bryn could feel her heart beating rapidly in the back of her throat. She just needed to do it. Everything would fall into place if she could just--

“Alright, something’s up, and you’re not leaving until you tell me what it is,” Alistair’s voice interrupted her thoughts as his arms folded over his broad chest.

Bryn swallowed and tried to control her shaking knees--the last thing she needed right now was to fall over because her body decided not to support her own weight. Alistair didn’t move while she shuffled from one foot to the other. She wasn’t planning on going anywhere, but, if she _did_ , she knew he’d find a way to keep her in the exact spot she was standing. And he called _her_ stubborn.

With a quick exhale, she decided to speak with actions rather than words. The movement was sudden. Her arms shot out, elbows locking and the muscles in her thighs twitching. One hand was wrapped tightly around the grip of the sword, and the other was supporting the blade, as if she was holding it up for his inspection.

“Bryn, what are you--”

“I want you to have it!” she rambled, her words stringing together in a barely comprehensible mess.

Alistair’s eyes flew wide, and his arms unfolded so he could hold his hands up in front of him. “Maker, Bryn, I can’t just take your--”

“Please, Alistair, I…” Her chest tightened. She still wasn’t sure how she wanted to explain this to him. What would he think of the tradition? Would he think she was asking _something else_ of him? If he did, she wasn’t sure she could convince him otherwise. Maker, what if he _wanted_ her to ask that _something else_ of him? Surely he couldn’t, they’d only known each other for a few months.

“Bryn?”

“I found something a bit better on our last outing.” The words slipped from between her lips before she had a chance to realize the consequences that would come with them. However, they also provided a thin blanket of comfort--an out. And they weren’t a lie, necessarily; she _had_ found something better on their last trip, she just hadn’t intended to use it until that very second.

Alistair’s eyes thinned, inspecting her face. She prayed to the Maker that he wouldn’t see her lie.

“That can’t be it,” he muttered. “You wouldn’t be so nervous if that's all this was about.” The grin that flashed upon his face warmed her cheeks.

“Well, I, um, I mean…” Her mind tripped over itself, looking for another half-truth she could tell. “This sword is… It’s important to me. And I know you’ll take care of it, so…”

She found herself unable to look at him any longer. She had no doubt her face was as red as a tomato and that Alistair could most definitely see it. Bryn could practically feel the way his eyes were pasted to her face, as if staring at her would drive more information out.

“Are you sure?”

The words surprised her. She’d been waiting for the vehement denial--for him to say that he had his own sword and he had no need of hers--but, instead, he sought affirmation. She felt her heart swell and nodded.

“Please, take it.”

Though he wasn’t completely aware of what it meant, he reached out, his fingers gently brushing along her palm as he lifted the sword from her grasp. Her arm dropped when he had a solid hold and lifted it to allow closer examination of his new weapon. Bryn watched his eyes and lips carefully, searching for some--for any--reaction and, when his gaze paused on the heraldry emblazoned on the blade, she had to swallow the nerves in her throat.

Alistair smoothed his thumb over the etchings and took a deep breath. “She’ll come to no harm with me. I promise.”

Suddenly, oxygen flooded Bryn’s lungs. She was slightly disappointed that she hadn’t been able to tell him exactly what the significance of this event was, but there was a sneaking suspicion in her gut that he knew there was more to it that she’d been suggesting. When his eyes shifted to her--soft and bright--she knew she was right. Perhaps she’d explain it to him one day, when she was feeling courageous.

The softness of Alistair’s gaze shifted, the corners of his eyes lifting as his seemingly default cheesy grin slanted his lips.

“And, you know what?” he began as he stepped around Bryn to grab the sheath from where she’d set in next to the tree she’d been sitting against. As he slid the sword into it, he approached and leaned into her. “I might even let you visit her--if you’re nice.”

Bryn snorted and gently elbowed his ribs. There was another flash of softness in his gaze, and she leaned up to quickly kiss his cheek. She always forgot just how tall he was.

“Was there a reason you came out here, or did you just feel like annoying me?” she teased.

Alistair grinned. “The stew is ready. And I didn’t overcook it or anything!”

“You cooked tonight?”

“Indeed I did, my lady.”

“Oh, well… I may just, y’know… stay out here a while longer.”

Alistair’s laughter bubbled up in the form of a bark, and he swapped the sword from one hand to the other, his now free hand reaching down to find her own. He flashed her a glance that silently asked her if it was alright, his fingers sliding between her own. When her digits tightened around his, he grinned and began pulling her through the forest.

It wasn’t a long walk back to camp--Bryn had enough intelligence to know not to wander too far--and the silence between the two of them was comfortable. All of her attention was focused on the warmth of his palm against hers, the way the pad of his thumb subconsciously smoother over her knuckles. She was almost embarrassed by how smitten she was.

All too soon, they breached the edge of the forest and stepped into the small clearing where they’d set up tents. His hand slipped from hers when they approached the fire around which the rest of their companions sat, bowls of stew in hand. All eyes were quickly on the pair, but, if anyone noticed the sword in Alistair’s hand, none of them said anything about it. In fact, Wynne jumped directly into a compliment about how much his cooking skills had improved since she first joined their little rag-tag band. Even as Alistair leaned the sword up against the pile of his armor, none of their friends said a word.

However, when Bryn managed to get a bowl and sit down with Alistair quickly following suit, she found Leliana smiling at her across the fire.

The knowing look playing on the bard’s face was something Bryn elected to ignore.


	2. Explanation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bryn gets cornered into explaining the story of the Cousland family sword to Alistair.

“I just had a rather interesting conversation with Leliana.”

Bryn pulled a face of mock surprise as Alistair stepped up beside her. “You and interesting conversation happening within five feet of each other? What is the world coming to?”

“Ah, ah, ah! I came up here with a purpose, and I don’t intend to let your cruel nature distract me.”

Bryn smiled and kicked a rock to the side of the path. “What was this interesting conversation about, then?”

“The sword you gave me.”

She tripped over her boots, stumbling slightly against the dry dirt of the road. “Oh?” she squeaked, attempting--and failing--to swallow the nerves climbing into her mouth.

Alistair stepped closer to her and hummed quietly. “She said there was a story to it. Wouldn’t tell me what it was, though.”

“Of course she wouldn’t,” Bryn huffed under her breath. Since the night she’d given him the sword, Leliana had been flashing her looks--she knew exactly what the sword was and what it meant. Bryn had hoped that she’d either keep the information to herself or simply tell him so she wouldn’t have to.

“So-o...” Alistair said, bumping the top of his arm against her shoulder.

Bryn could feel the blood gathering in her cheeks, and she bit her lip as she turned her eyes to the forest stretching along either side of the road. “So, what?”

“What’s the story?”

“It’s, um… well… I mean, it’s--” Bryn took a quick deep breath. “It’s not... ah…”

“Maker, you’re an awful storyteller.”

The edge of Bryn’s nerves wore down slightly at his teasing tone, but her blush still began to crawl down her neck. “The story isn’t very interesting.”

“Neither was my templar training, but you wanted to hear about that.”

Bryn reached down to finger the pommel of her new sword. Her heart was thudding against her ribcage, and she almost felt like she was going to vomit. Since that night, she’d thought about telling him several times, but the twisting of her stomach had always stopped her. Now she was in a corner with no way to escape.

Swallowing her tongue, she anxiously folded her hands. “Holy Maker, okay, um,” she spoke quickly, attempting to gain some control over herself. “Well, it was… Ah, it was forged a really long time ago, I guess. I don’t know where.”

Alistair hummed and brushed his fingers against her forearm.

“Maker, do you really want to hear about this?” Bryn stammered, her face burning.

“Even more than I did, now I see how red it’s made you.”

Bryn squeaked and turned her face from him, pulling a laugh from between his ribs.

“Why has it made you so red? Ooh, is the story a naughty one?”

She slapped at his chest, firmly keeping her eyes on the trees to her right. “No, it’s not naughty. My ancestor wielded it in support of Calenhad, and in return for the service it was lightly enchanted so it would never dull.”

“Yes, well, if that’s so then why are you blushing?” His voice was teasing, his fingers prodding at the small hole between the plates of her back and chestpiece.

“Because it’s--” Her words faltered, her odd nervous confidence failing her. Every part of her body felt like it had been bathed in fire. She’d never been so nervous in her life.

Bryn allowed herself to think for a moment. She knew how Alistair felt and that he’d appreciate the gesture, she just needed to make sure he didn’t think it was something that it wasn’t. And she could do that. She could.

Pressing her fingers to her cheeks in a weak attempt to cool them, she glanced at him. His eyes were bright and his smile genuine, and both softened when she met his gaze. She could do this.

“There’s, um… a tradition, I suppose,” she started quietly, her eyes returning to the woods. “I’m not sure how far back it goes exactly, but my father’s great-grandfather told him stories about it, so it must be a ways.” Her tongue flicked out to wet her rapidly drying lips. “The tradition is… um, well, each member of the Cousland line… offers it to someone. Someone important to them.”

She was about to glance at him in an attempt to gauge his reaction when she felt his hand close around hers. He began to pull her towards the side of the road, waving the rest of their companions past them, and Bryn kept her gaze steadily on the toes of her boots. A few silent moments crept by, and then she felt Alistair’s fingers squeeze around hers.

“You’re, um…” His voice was soft and very, very close. Bryn could feel the air blow from his mouth as he took a calming breath and quietly cleared his throat. “You’re important to me, too.”

Bryn released a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding and a smile spread across her lips. She still refused to look at him, though, lest her movement ruin the moment. He was not so shy and reached up to brush her hair behind her ear, his fingers trailing over her cheek. Finally, when his hand fell to grasp her other one, she shifted her eyes to his. The way he watched her made her heart stutter.

Despite the blush no doubt layering her entire body, she teased him. "You know, you could've told me that while we walked."

"Hmm, true," he said, mirth once more flickering behind his irises. "But then I'd have to kiss you in front of all of our friends. And Morrigan."

Bryn flushed as he inched towards her, smiling. "I thought you would have wanted to kiss in front of Morrigan," she muttered, her lips brushing--just barely--against his. "She would have been absolutely repulsed."

"Gagging noises aren't very romantic, my dear."

"So now you're a romantic?"

He squeezed her hands. "Aspiring."

There was a second where their breaths were shared, and then soft lips met chapped ones, eyes sliding closed with soft sighs. His mouth was warm. She could taste the stew they'd had for lunch lingering on his skin, but it was somehow sweeter coming from his lips, not as bland as it was from a spoon. Her heart felt as if it was swelling while her ribs contracted around it and, in her stomach, butterflies fluttered. As their noses and lips gently pressed against one another, she wondered if she would ever tire of this--of him.

"Maker, we need to do that more often," Alistair breathed, the words brushing over the corner of Bryn's mouth.

"I can ignore the gagging noises if you can."

Alistair grinned, his eyes brightening in front of hers. "See? I knew I liked you for a reason."

As he was no longer leaning down to her, Bryn had to lean up on her toes to press another chaste kiss to his smile. When she settled back on her heels, he followed and did the same, giggling against her lips. Several more childish pecks were exchanged. Even as they made their way back onto the road--hands swinging between them like a pendulum--Alistair would lean over and kiss the corner of her mouth. He didn't stop when they caught up with their group, nor did he stop when they found themselves at the front of it once more.

Thankfully, ignoring Morrigan's gagging noises came much, much easier than they'd thought it would be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finished this, like, a solid two weeks ago, and I just never posted it. Been a bit busy. Whoops. 
> 
> I love these two. It's been a really long time since I've been so passionate about a ship. Thank you for allowing me to share them with you. Hope you at least slightly enjoyed the story!

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure if I'll write anything more about Bryn, but I made it part of a series just in case. 
> 
> Sorry if there were some typos--this hasn't been proof read and it wrote it at one in the morning, so there's bound to be something wrong with it. Also sorry if Alistair is ever OOC, because I've always had trouble writing him.
> 
> Thanks for your time, though. That was really rad of you.
> 
> EDIT: This got some pretty big updates. I practically scrapped everything save for the idea. I also added a sort of continuation bit in the form of a second chapter, I guess?


End file.
